Moving On, Looking Back
by MarySkater
Summary: Letting Christine go had been hard, but could the Phantom ever truly leave her behind? There were lessons to be taught, and an important lesson still to be learned.


_Author's note:_ This one-shot story is not related to other things I have published here, but is a different take on what happened to the Phantom afterwards.

* * *

Moving On, Looking Back.

The passage was little more than a pipe; narrow, pitch-dark, damp. The Phantom squirmed along on his belly, needing no light, automatically reaching for the levers that closed the route behind him. Tears ran down his furrowed face, and he briefly wondered why he was going to this trouble. What was the point? But long ago, he had prepared this way out and practised using it, in case of dire need. To follow the plan, to repeat the rehearsed moves, required no thought. He did not want to think. Could not afford to think.

A patch of faint grey loomed in the blackness, where a grating opened to an alley only a little less dark than the tunnel. Emerging into the stillness, locking the grating behind him, he walked down the alley, then glanced up and took a cord from his pocket. Tossing a loop to a fire escape above him, he pulled down the sliding section of ladder and swarmed up, drawing it up after him. Climbing to the top, unlocking a door, he vanished into a garret apartment. It was basic, but adequate for a lone fugitive. Had he… not been alone… there had been other plans. No, don't think about that now. Do what must be done.

He was dirty, from the tunnel. Dirt could be endured if necessary, but to be clean was better. There was running water, although cold, with the range unlit. No matter. Methodically he stripped, put his suit on hangers, set his linen soaking in a bucket, washed himself clean, made up the bed. He needed sleep, but knew that sleep would never come naturally that night. Opening a drawer, he reached for a small bottle, then his hand hovered between the bottle and a sealed glass phial. Both would bring blessed oblivion, but with the phial, there would be no awakening. It was tempting… but perhaps not yet. He swallowed a mouthful from the bottle, lay down and waited for the friendly darkness.

O-O-O

The night passed, and the day, and most of the next night, before he stirred again. Waking, he remembered. Remembering, he regretted not using the phial. And yet the urge to life had always been strong in him. It had kept him alive until now, through many times when death would have been preferable. If he was to live, there were things to be done. He washed, and endured a mirror for long enough to shave the scanty beard that grew on the undamaged areas of his face. The Phantom of the Opera must always be elegant and well-groomed.

No, he was in error. He was no longer the Phantom of the Opera. That role had gone now, after his cherished plan had collapsed about him. By now, his home would have been wrecked, and any stranger glimpsed in the Opera House was inviting a bullet. No more Phantom. He was simply… Erik.

The stove was lit now, and would provide hot water to deal with the soiled clothing. He donned clean clothes from chest and cupboard, but not the white half-mask or the smooth wig. It was time for other guises. Meanwhile, he needed to eat. Clad in hat and greatcoat, with neat bandages obscuring part of his face, he slipped quietly down the stairs. Apart from the garret, the building was used for storage. He saw no one, and no concierge guarded the entry gate. In the street, a few early risers passed him on their sleepy way to work. He bought bread, wine and a few other things at a nearby shop, left a note at an adjacent building, and returned to the garret. Some hours later, there came a knock at his door. A single knock, then two, then three. Erik, face and head covered by a hooded mask of black silk, opened the door and waved the roughly-dressed man to come in.

"Monsieur," began the workman. "I got your note. You require my services?"

"Yes, Pierre. I shall be staying here for… for a while. I shall need food, coal, newspapers… you know the routine. Here is money for what you must buy, and here is your pay. You know the terms."

"Silence, Monsieur. Oh yes, I am good at silence."

"So you are. That is why I hired you. Very well, you may go."

O-O-O

To live as a recluse was no novelty. To have a window looking down on the street was something of a novelty, although he made little use of it. He buried himself in music. This was no place for large instruments, but violin and flute could occupy him well enough. He set himself the task – and it was a task – of writing cheerful music, melodies to set people dancing, songs to express happiness and optimism. Such compositions brought no healing to his own anguish, but each one occupied his mind until the piece was finished, sent off to a music publisher, and forgotten.

One thing, though, he could never forget; her face, glowing with happiness. He had seen her joyful more than once. When they sang together and she felt the magic he had conjured from her voice, or when she sang on stage and knew the glory and rapture of a perfect performance, she was enchanted. But – oh, it hurt – she had never looked so joyful as when she left him to go and join her Vicomte. She had looked on him with pity, even gratitude, but had turned her back on him with no regret.

He wished he could understand. He had loved her, he loved her still, with all the fervour of a heart that had never loved before. How was it possible that his love could call no answering love from her? Fire caused more fire. A shout brought back an echo. Passion… ah, yes. He had felt her lips on his, felt her arms about him. There had been passion there, without doubt, but… _not for him_. All for her damned pretty-boy lover.

Well, she had chosen. He could not understand her choice. But he understood his own. He could have kept her caged. She would even have tried to please him – her kisses promised that. He might have rejoiced, for a time, in his ownership of her. But he would have had to watch her fade away and die of misery. Knowing that, he made his own choice, to give her happiness in the way she wanted it. He hoped she would never know what it had cost him.

He allowed himself the luxury of seeking news of her. There was nothing in the newspapers, but there were more subtle ways of gathering information. Christine and Raoul had fled Paris together, returning a short time later as man and wife. They knew his family would be outraged at such an unsuitable match, and they lived quietly in a small apartment, while seeking reconciliation. Eventually, most of the Chagnys grudgingly accepted the marriage, especially since the unwanted bride conducted herself modestly, and made no move to resume her discreditable stage career. The Vicomte and Vicomtesse were permitted to rejoin the family. One stiff-necked uncle never came to terms with the situation. He said loudly and frequently, to anyone who would listen, that Raoul had brought shame on the family, and that he and his harlot should take themselves off, right out of the country. His tirades came to an abrupt halt one day, when he slipped down a flight of stairs where some lamp-oil had unaccountably been spilled. He took to his bed with several broken bones, which gave him something new to complain about.

Erik returned to his refuge, after two or three days away. He found a box of supplies in the kitchen. That was to be expected. Pierre had a key, and instructions to use it if his knock was not answered. Relaxing in the familiar rooms, Erik smiled to himself. He had lied to Christine at the start, pretending to be an angel. Perhaps he could redeem some of those lies now, and really be her angel when she needed one. But there are rules of behaviour for angels. She must never, never see him, or even know that he was near, and it would be better if he never saw her. And… perhaps he had taken too big a risk, with that staircase. There must be no more deaths.

The next melody he wrote was softer, more contemplative. It was taking some time to get it right, and he was distracted one day by the unsteady footsteps of Pierre on the stairs. He opened the door without waiting to be asked. Pierre limped through to the scullery with a sack of coal on his shoulders, and tipped it into the bunker.

"Are you unwell, Pierre?"

"My knees, Monsieur. I don't get any younger, and the coal is heavy." He dusted his hands on his trousers. "I was wondering… My youngest boy still lives at home. I say boy, but he is turned twenty, stronger than me. Would it be acceptable to you if he shared the errands with me?"

"Can he keep a still tongue in his head?"

"He doesn't talk much to anybody. A bit of a dreamer, I'd say. But he's trustworthy."

"Bring him and let me talk to him."

O-O-O

The young man looked ordinary enough. Medium height and build, unremarkable brown hair and eyes, clothes a little tidier than his father's, but still marking him as working class.

"Your name, boy?" asked Erik.

"Anton, Monsieur."

"And what has your father told you about me?"

"You are… a gentleman who guards his privacy. You do not show your face, but you have many different masks and disguises. If I need a name for you, I am to call you Monsieur Renard, but I am not to talk about you to anyone else. You need someone to run your errands, and you pay well. But you demand good service. He said… he once made you angry. He wishes never to anger you again. He said you sent him to the station with a package for someone who was catching a train. But he was too late, and failed to make the delivery." Anton glanced sidelong at his father. "He did not say… but I wonder if he stayed too long in a bar, and that made him late." Pierre shuffled uncomfortably, but did not deny it.

"A good guess," Erik replied softly. "But to compound his error, he lied to me about it. An honest mistake can be tolerated. Carelessness earns a rebuke. But to lie to me…? Not wise, not wise at all."

"I know that, Monsieur," put in Pierre. "I know I am lucky still to have a job with you. At the time, I felt I was lucky still to be alive… For what it is worth, I have never let you down since that day. I think Anton will not let you down."

"I may make mistakes, Monsieur. But at any rate, I will not lie to you. I am not clever enough for that."

"That makes you cleverer than your father, at any rate. Very well, Anton. You may work as my errand boy, on the same terms as your father."

O-O-O

Erik found it impossible to keep his resolution of not seeing Christine. He watched her carefully, from a distance, making sure she never suspected he was there. She lived quietly, sometimes going out walking or driving with Raoul. Or she might go shopping attended by a maid, but she was never alone. It looked as though she would never again sing in public, and he regretted the waste, but understood it. She had changed worlds, and must live by the rules of her new position.

Ever since the affair of the foul-mouthed uncle, he had hoped to find some other way he could serve her. He wanted to slay dragons on her behalf… but in his more rational moments, he realised that he himself was the worst dragon that might threaten her. The best he could do for her was to keep away, lest his self-control fail him. Back home in the garret, he began for the first time to write music to express his sadness at the loss of her.

O-O-O

Erik played the whole melody through on his flute, then put the instrument down and sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, with impatience, he went to the door and threw it open. Anton, sitting on the landing beside a box of groceries, looked up, startled.

"Bring it in, then, boy. Are you going to sit there all day? I heard you come up the stairs half an hour ago."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Renard. I heard you playing, and I did not want to disturb you. Besides… the music was so beautiful… I wanted to hear more."

"You like music? Are you a musician?"

"Hardly that, Monsieur." He paused, embarrassed. "I do have an accordion. Someone gave it to my father, in payment of a debt. I asked if I could have it. I try to play it, but I'm not very good."

"Hmm… I don't think I have ever tried to play an accordion. I'm not sure why – they are common enough. Perhaps I felt they were too common, and wanted to concentrate on more serious instruments. If you like, bring your squeezebox here some day, and we shall see what may be done with it."

"Oh, may I? Monsieur, you are very kind!"

Erik knew full well that he was not naturally kind. But he missed the music of the Opera House. Missed sitting in hidden spots, listening to rehearsals and performances, even of music that was not his own. The antics of a self-taught amateur with an accordion were hardly likely to fill the gap left by a trained orchestra and chorus, but perhaps it might amuse him for a while.

Anton's instrument proved to be rather battered. "It has been in the wars, hasn't it?" remarked Erik, examining it with interest.

"I'm afraid so," replied Anton. "There was a split in the bellows. I mended it, here. It's very clumsy, but it holds air. These top two keys don't work. I don't know why."

"Broken reeds, probably," murmured Erik. "Well, show me what you can do with it."

Anton started to play, but Erik quickly stopped him. "That is too difficult for you. You are trying to show off, and exceeding your skill. Try again, something simpler, something you enjoy playing." The second attempt, with an easier tune, went much better, and Erik permitted Anton to play it through to the end.

"That is not bad. You do have some ability. May I try?" Donning the accordion, he played the tune which Anton had failed with, grimacing a little as some chords did not do what he wanted, but leaving Anton stunned with admiration.

"I thought you said… you could not play accordion?"

He shrugged. "I have never tried. But a keyboard is a keyboard, even if it is short and vertical. I watched how you worked the bellows. It would take me a little time to master all the left-hand buttons. If you are willing to leave it with me, say until Friday, I will learn its foibles, and then I may be able to help you with it."

"Monsieur, I would be delighted!"

Erik disguised himself early next morning, and went shopping for some specialised tools and materials. When Anton returned on Friday, he found that his old accordion had been given a new lease of life, with a neater repair on the bellows and the broken keys mended. His employer now could play the instrument as though he had known it lifelong, but Anton was put through some demanding tests and exercises. It was hard work, and yet he felt himself achieving better results than ever before.

"Enough for now," Erik told him eventually. "Your hands are tiring. Now, can you sing? Sing me something simple, some popular song you might sing on a night out with your friends, or join in from the audience in the music hall."

Shy, but not daring to refuse, Anton drew himself up straight and sang a lively air in praise of a pretty girl. Erik did not watch him, but listened intently, the masked face slightly bowed. He did not speak at once, and Anton sat down, embarrassed.

Eventually, Erik looked up. "You have some talent, Anton. You will never make a classical performer, but I do not think you would want to. Popular music is your forte. You could do well as a street musician, and perhaps achieve some success on stage at the Folies. Do you wish me to give you lessons?"

"Oh, Monsieur! That would be wonderful. But…" His face fell. "I could never afford to pay for lessons, not from such a maestro as you."

"I don't want your money. But if we pursue this, I want your dedication. I shall not waste my time with you otherwise. I know that you must earn your living, that you do other jobs besides fetching and carrying for me. Whatever time you have left, that I will claim. You will either be here studying with me, or practising at home. Do you agree?"

"Yes! Oh yes." They arranged a schedule for the forthcoming week, and Anton left, dazzled at the prospect.

Erik smiled grimly to himself. Servants were easy to hire, but loyal servants were harder to find. He would be able to manipulate the boy through music, make him a disciple. He had no need, at the moment, of someone who would die for him, or merely lie for him if he needed an alibi. But to have such a one was always a useful weapon in his armoury of survival. It was just as well the boy did have a modicum of musical talent. Erik could never bring himself to be dishonest about music. But people? They were tools, and he would use them.

O-O-O

In the park, Erik loitered within a grove of trees, watching the gate. Yes, there they came. He knew the routine. The carriage dropped them at the gate, they would walk through the park, admiring the flowers and fountains, then they would meet the carriage at a different gate and be driven home. Christine leaned on Raoul's arm, looking happy, while he smiled attentively at her. Erik fed on her happiness, his gift to her, the most expensive gift she would ever receive. He flitted along a narrow path behind a row of shrubs, watching while remaining unseen.

It was a fine spring day, but rather cold, and Christine was wearing a cloak. As she turned to say something to Raoul, the wind turned her cloak back, and pressed her gown against her body. Erik saw the swelling curve of her belly, and for a moment ceased to breathe. Without another glance, he turned and strode away.

Why did it matter? Why was it another knife in his heart? Even in those days when he had dreamed vain dreams of her, he had never wanted her to bear his child… had he? When she chose de Chagny, he had always known that she would carry on the family line… hadn't he? "Enough!" he muttered to himself, not really knowing what he meant. As he paced the streets to his home, the word echoed in his head. Enough, enough, enough…

He entered his garret, threw his mask on the floor, went to the chest and took the sealed phial from the drawer. "Enough," he said once more, as he broke the seal and swallowed the contents. It tasted oddly sweet, but gave off a fiery vapour that invaded his lungs. Already a little unsteady on his feet, he walked to his bed and threw himself down. He did not have to wait long for the blackness.

O-O-O

Anton whistled as he walked along the street, his accordion in its case on his shoulder, ready for his lesson. In the few months that Monsieur Renard had been teaching him, he knew that he had improved enormously. Singing and playing on street corners, he could earn a good living, enough that he had given up his other odd jobs, except for Monsieur's errands. He sometimes even found engagements in restaurants. He had not yet had the nerve to audition for a music hall performance, but he knew it was possible now.

Monsieur Reynard made him work hard, but was always patient, always encouraging him to give of his best, to do better than he had before. As his accordion playing improved, Monsieur had made him try flute and violin, but he could not get the knack of those. Then one day, Monsieur had rented another room, on the ground floor of the building, and installed an upright piano. Monsieur used it himself, for his own music, but also made it available to Anton, who found it possible, and fascinating, to coax music from it. Anton checked the piano room on his way in, but it was empty. Monsieur must be in the garret.

O-O-O

It seemed to Erik that he was drifting at the bottom of a deep lake. But no, that could not be, for he could feel himself breathing…

Breathing?! He should not be breathing! The potion… in his thoughts, he damned the mountebank who had supplied the ingredients. Would he have to do it all again…? It was too much… he moaned.

There was a sound of movement near him, though he barely noticed. He felt sick, but a cool cloth on his face was a little comfort. On his unmasked face… He forced his eyes open. Anton bent over him, sponging his forehead and cheeks. "Oh, Monsieur," he sighed. "I thought you were dying…"

"It seems I do not die so easily." But his voice was weak, faint. He tried to rally his strength. "No mask? And you can bear to look at me, touch me?"

"I had to try to help. Your face...? It had to be something like this, some sort of scars or marks. It doesn't matter, so long as you are recovering."

"Give me some water."

Anton brought a cup, and supported Erik with an arm round his shoulders while he drank. Revived a little, Erik lay back on the pillow. He was still dressed in his street clothes, but Anton had loosened his collar. As his muscles creaked a protest at the movements, Erik felt that he had lain there a long time. But he could feel the blood stirring sluggishly in his veins, feel his heart beating more strongly. Like it or not, death would not take him yet.

Anton set the cup aside, and stood still for a moment. Then suddenly, he stooped over Erik and kissed him warmly on the lips. Erik was briefly paralysed, as shocked as when Christine had kissed him. Then Anton pulled away, breathing hard, and retreated to the other side of the room. Erik gathered his thoughts. He knew, of course, that there were men who… but he had never seen the signs in Anton. How to deal with it…?

"I… I'm sorry," muttered Anton. "I should not have… Some men would have killed me for doing that."

"I shall not," replied Erik, "although I might have struck you if I were stronger. But why, Anton?"

"Isn't it obvious? I… I love you. When I found you and thought you were dying… it almost broke my heart. I can't hide it any longer…"

With an effort, Erik swung his feet to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed. His spinning head warned him not to try to stand yet. "You're mistaken. You shouldn't feel that way for me. I warn you, I am not worthy of love."

"But you've done so much for me… Sharing your music, teaching me… I've been happy with you, happier than ever before."

"You poor fool, don't you realise I've been using you, winning your loyalty? Nothing more."

"I can't… I can't believe that. I love you so much… surely you must feel something for me? I can see that your face must make you an outsider. The way I am, that makes me an outsider. We both understand that. Surely my love merits some return…"

With sudden clarity, Erik saw his own longings mirrored in Anton's artless yearning. Faced with a love he did not want and could not return, at last he understood Christine's feelings for him. He felt sorry for the boy… but pity was not enough.

"No, Anton. If love strikes two people at once, then – I believe – it may be all you dream of. But love can be one-sided, and when it is, it is cruel."

"Then… what am I to do? I don't know… I don't know how to manage… these feelings…"

"You just go on. Or else you die," Erik replied with brutal simplicity. "I don't think you will die. Youth is on your side, although you may not be ready to believe that. But I'll tell you something, from my own knowledge. The only remedy is distance. It is no good clinging to futile dreams."

"Then… you want me to go away? Not come back here again?"

"There is no need. It is I who must go, out of Paris, out of France. Oh, not because of you. There are other reasons, and I should have done this long ago."

"Clinging to futile dreams…" Anton repeated slowly. "You?"

"Does it matter?" Erik pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but growing stronger. "Give me your arm, Anton. Help me to my desk."

Erik wrote a page or two, and handed the papers to Anton. "Leave me now. I need a day or two to get over this illness. Today is the fifth of the month. By the eighth, I will be gone. You may return on the ninth. This gives you authority to remove anything I have left behind. Take the piano, at least. I… I would like to think that you will carry on playing and singing. Let that be my legacy to you, if you will."

Tears ran quietly down Anton's face. "And you? What is left, for you?"

Erik was silent for a long moment. "The one love that will never fail me. My music."

._._. THE END ._._.


End file.
